


the definition of incorrigible

by youcouldmakealife



Series: if all is enough [2]
Category: Original Work
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-22
Updated: 2014-06-22
Packaged: 2018-02-05 19:34:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,244
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1829698
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/youcouldmakealife/pseuds/youcouldmakealife
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Wait," he says slowly. "Do you think I'm actually flirting with them?" Ulf asks, disbelieving. "Do you seriously think I'd flirt with anyone of those douchebags if it wasn't to mess with their game?"</p><p>"You--you do it to fuck with them," Rousseau says, just as slow.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the definition of incorrigible

The preseason starts as the preseason always does--with an old rival and a new mark to harass, seeds to plant for the season. It’s an easy choice, the first game, surrounded by half-hearted jeers, the temperature outside cracking eighty and no one in the scattered crowd quite prepared to care about hockey, not yet. 

The kid's a legacy brat--dad was still in the league when Ulf started playing, which makes him feel hopelessly old. Early pick in the first round, and they're clearly testing him out in the preseason, seeing how well he stretches. He's cute, in the awkward way of youth, his face not quite fitting him yet, but big brown eyes and a full, pouty mouth, and Ulf flirts with him because it's practically a rite of passage in this league, because the rest of the Devils are far too used to it for it to be effective, and a little, just a little, because he's genuinely adorable, like a baby deer. Not that Ulf will ever genuinely go after a rookie. He learned his lesson years ago, and then learned it again, and that was long before he was twice their age. Which he is now. Christ, maybe he flirts because the kid makes him feel ancient, and he's got to get something back.

The kid's so new he practically squeaks--leans in to hear Ulf better when he talks low, because he clearly hasn't learned that he's supposed to ignore everything--what are the minors teaching kids these days? Flushing pink, utterly adorable, and thrown off, which was the point, and a decent introduction, taken aback when Masters greets him in his own way with a bone-grinding check against the boards.

It doesn't work after the first period--or, it does, but not in the same way. He reacts with anger the next time Ulf lingers, the same bright flush, the same distraction, so it isn't like Ulf gives a damn, because it worked. Figures they told him in the locker room, warned him Ulf pulled shit like that constantly. Ulf doesn't know if it's hurt feelings or hurt ego, that fragile, self-centered eighteen year old suddenly disabused of the notion he's so irresistible grown hockey players will ignore their job just to talk to him. It doesn't matter. It did the trick, and he did the job, and the kid plays like shit. If this is the audition, he's not making it beyond the farm team this year. 

He’s the first one, but there are a couple other easy marks, all shiny new to the league. Some bite, some don’t, one kid who looks like he’s barely out of diapers shoots him a look of such cold disdain that Ulf wants to buy him a drink and wish him a long and successful career, but all and all it’s a good start to the year. 

*

"You have to stop that," Rousseau says after the last game before the coaches are out of their test drive and playing in the real world, catches Ulf when the room's emptied out and Ulf's gotten distracted by an email from a girl he'd known in Florida, moved to New York City. Trying to weigh the pros and cons of meeting her for a drink.

"Stop what?" Ulf asks, puts his phone away. He doubts he's about to get some lecture about phone use. Tries to rack his brain for anything particularly egregious, any dirty hits, or hits dirtier than usual, stray elbows or knees. Can't come up with anything in particular; it was a preseason game and he treated it like everyone else.

"The flirting," Rousseau says, and he's already coloring, more obvious than on the ice, under the bright lights with the flush of exertion. Here there's just the too bright fluorescents of the visiting locker room, and his crisp white shirt makes it look like he's going darker than he is, just comparatively. He isn't looking at Ulf, and that's a bad habit, that's something he's going to have to shake, because every time he's gotten a lecture from a coach, from coaching staff, they looked him right in the eye, and there's nothing better for making someone feel small. 

"But it works," Ulf says. He's gotten this talk before, no coach has been oblivious, but its effectiveness tends to make them tolerant, at least to a point.

"It's unprofessional," Rousseau says. "It's a distraction." 

"Yeah," Ulf says, "that's the point."

Rousseau finally looks at him. "What do you mean by that?" he asks.

Ulf blinks up at him. Even sitting on the bench, Rousseau looming over him, he doesn't feel cowed, or abashed. Rousseau has a lot to learn. To control his face, first. Ulf suspects he wouldn't appreciate the advice.

"Wait," he says slowly. "Do you think I'm actually flirting with them?" Ulf asks, disbelieving. "Do you seriously think I'd flirt with anyone of those douchebags if it wasn't to mess with their game?"

"You--you do it to fuck with them," Rousseau says, just as slow. His face is molten red now, a mirror of the way he'd looked on the ice whenever Ulf pulled it out on him.

"Yeah," Ulf says. "It works. It's a good tactic."

"A tactic," Rousseau repeats, and when Ulf silently nods agreement, spins on his heel and walks out the door so fast his dress shoes squeak.

It takes a minute for Ulf to put together the look on his face, the frozen look, before he realises that embarrassment had made way to utter humiliation right around the moment Ulf implicitly copped to having fucked with Rousseau personally to win games.

Well, fuck. 

*

It's clear very early that Travis has a system. It's clear just as early that it is a very different system than what Deslauriers had. Ulf is immediately encouraged by that. The Rangers had been good, but there was a rough-hewn blunt-force quality to it, elbow to ribs, shoulder to head, that had never been Ulf's favorite way to play. Travis doesn't coach that way. 

Ulf knew from the day they announced the hiring that things would be shaken up, perhaps drastically, because the Penguins played sleek and smooth. The Rangers don't have the right roster for that, not entirely, but they didn't have the right roster to play filthy, either, and Ulf is selfishly glad for the change. He's not opposed to throwing an elbow if it frees the puck, but it's inelegant. Getting into an opponent's head is a far more effective way to destabilize them. Everyone comes onto the ice expecting to get hit, but even the guys expecting chirps can be blind-sided by a well-aimed comment. Not so different, in the end, but Ulf's better at one than the other.

Some of the guys chafed, it was obvious even in the set-up of training camp, the fractured drills. Fewer than may have been expected, however, and it only takes a few preseason games for the stragglers to either get demoted or sullenly get in line, and by the time the regular season hits, the system's the smoothest Ulf has played within in years, quite a few of them. The Rangers had been good, but they hadn't been cohesive, and the less said about the mess the Panthers were when he was playing for them, the better for everyone. The last time Ulf can remember having this much faith in a system was the year he won a Cup. It's been over ten years. He hadn't even realized he'd been waiting. 

He says as much to Marc on Skype. They've done it fairly often since Ulf went up, but it's prone to interruption--a baby's cry, the way Ulf feels awkward if Charlotte's tucked over Marc's shoulder like a barrier. Like he can't say what he'd like if she's there, even if she doesn't understand a word. It's better when Marc's out of town, and Ulf knows that's selfish, because there's a washed out quality to Marc when he's wrapped up in the faux warmth of hotel walls. He'd spent the last fifteen years away from Dan more than he was with him, but that isn't true any longer, and it leaves him quiet, a bit melancholy when he is away. Better rested, though. Ulf points that out, and the corner of Marc's mouth tucks up.

Marc understands his joy over a system. Marc understands him in general, but this Marc would understand from anyone. Marc plays the way Ulf wishes he could, clean lines, graceful, but Ulf doesn't have the speed for it, the build. The skill, most importantly. Ulf will never come close to playing as well as Marc--at his peak he didn't play like Marc does now, mid-thirties and sleep-deprived as all hell. 

Marc barely seems to notice the fact he's surrounded himself with lesser artifacts, and Ulf doesn't think it's an act--hell, if Dan hadn't retired to settle down with Marc in Montreal Ulf thinks it's more likely than not that he'd have been gently nudged off the roster. The only reason the Senators kept him around as long as they did was for loyalty's sake, for the leadership, the steadiness, the locker room presence. Marc was an often sullen, sometimes frenetic presence in the locker room, and Ulf doubts age has mellowed that out of him, but goddamn can he play. 

Marc will never doubt his own skill--for good reason--but the second he's off the ice he takes it off, goes home to his husband, his baby, a different life than the one he lead ten years ago, one year ago. Ulf's envious of it--not of the husband, the child; the very thought fills him with an sharp existential dread that had appeared once his mother started asking out loud if she was ever to have grandchildren and hasn't left him since--but that ability to be something incredible and not have it consume him. To be something that incredible and not work every minute of every day for it. Ulf may not be the most determined or focused of players, a life of engrained habit carrying him through the rigmarole it takes just to stay on the roster--but he'll never be incredible either. He accepts that. He does the best he can with what he has, and most days that’s enough for the Rangers, enough for him. 

*

Ulf knows he isn't imagining Rousseau avoiding him after the fact. Not enough that any of the coaching staff would see it--he's a professional, and he interacts with Ulf as much as necessary, will still offer comments in that too tentative way of his. They're almost always smart, accurate, and he needs to break that habit, the way he drops his eyes, not just with Ulf, but with everyone, because he isn't going to get anyone's respect if he doesn't have them on their toes. Travis has that quality, and Ulf hopes he'll nudge it into his wayward prodigy, because Rousseau knows what he's talking about, but no one's listening, save maybe the rookies and call-ups who will take any piece of advice to cement their place, who look at him and see an old man because at eighteen, everyone in a suit and tie is, even when they’re wearing a suit and tie of their own.

Ulf needs to fix this, because his spot on the roster is too precarious to be on the bad side of anyone on the front lines, but he's unsure how to broach it. Acknowledging Rousseau's humiliation is admitting he knows something that Rousseau doesn't want him to: that every time Ulf had leaned in and Rousseau had flinched, that game of chicken, Rousseau hadn't thought it was a game. That the fact of it being a game upset him. The implications of that are clear enough, and uncomfortable even unspoken. For Rousseau at least, and for Ulf, if only because the repercussions could be--well, not dire, he's not an alarmist, but he doesn't really like Hartford much, the town's dead and the team's not much better. 

Save for that fact, it's flattering, that bloom of color on Rousseau's cheeks, wide dark eyes, almost skittish, a spooked horse, a frightened animal. Ulf had liked needling him best of all, even if it was easy, because he wore everything on his face, and it was a nice face to read.

But Ulf can't say that, because lord knows Rousseau wouldn't take it the right way, and besides, he's heard shit like that on the ice, from Ulf at least, who would remark on his blushing just to see the color deepen. Thinks saying it in all earnestness, even without intent, would just spook Rousseau more, and they're not on opposite sides any more, there's nothing to be gained by catching him flat-footed, off. Could say, "It wasn't personal," but that could be taken poorly, and besides, it isn't the truth, entirely, because Ulf had thought tactically, of course, but in the end he liked flirting with Rousseau because he was cute. Because he reacted, and because it worked every time, but mostly because he was cute.

*

The first night they get the coaches to come out to celebrate with them, that rare victory that calls them out, it's an away game that isn't really an away game, an old rivalry, the short trek to Brooklyn to play the Islanders, team name now a misnomer. It's not a hard fought hard won victory, the one that carries relief as much as achievement--the Islanders managed a few good years with Kurmazov at the helm and with a young Chapman in their pocket, but those days are gone and they've sunk back into mediocrity and worse, and those years are a distant memory painted by fans nostalgically, despite the fact there'd been no hardware to show for it save for a single Art Ross. 

But poor opponent or no, a rout is a rout, and a hat trick’s a hat trick, and a shutout’s a shutout, and all three of those combining into an absolute bloodbath is enough to call the coaches out to the usual spot, though one that’s new to them, an hour behind the team, down to shirtsleeves, all with a practiced oblivious eye to the underage players getting plastered with grinning good cheer, too tipsy by now to be wary of coaches ruining their fun.

Delaney bought the first round before the coaches got there, and he extends that courtesy to them as well, and only grins when Travis says they’ll be requiring three apiece, one for each goal, because it sure as hell won’t bankrupt him. Delaney ropes Ulf into helping him carry, because the bar staff’s a bit overwhelmed 

Ulf sets the drinks down in front of Rousseau, who doesn’t look at him, and retreats back to the tumble of self-congratulation and glee, buys a drink for a pretty girl with hair curling around her chin, then nudges her towards Daughtry, because he’s eyeing her kind of shyly, and she’s a little young for Ulf anyway. 

The coaches had their own table at first, but Travis went out to mingle with the team and Pietro followed, so eventually it’s just Rousseau looking like a sad sack surrounded by sweating bottles of beer, because Delaney’s as good as his word and apparently provided additional rounds that haven’t been capitalized on. Ulf slides into the seat Travis vacated, and Rousseau looks up, then back down again once he sees who’s opposite him.

“Buy you a drink?” Ulf asks, wry, and Rousseau looks up again to roll his eyes at him, which means he has at least some sense of humor behind his mask of dour unassuming seriousness, which is nice to know.

“Look,” Ulf starts, but doesn’t know how to complete the thought. A couple drinks was enough to send him over with the intention of righting things, because he has no interest in a stilted relationship with someone who could profoundly impact his career, or what’s left of it. This is exactly why he avoids fucking around with hockey players, and this time he didn’t even _fuck_ one. At least the rookie who pretty much drove him off the Panthers (a kind move in hindsight) got his dick wet first.

“Look,” Ulf repeats. “You’re the strategy guy. Travis rallies the troops, Pietro knows the conditioning, but you’re the guy behind the play.”

“Travis is--” Rousseau starts, and Ulf knows where this is going, the tired handing off of credit.

“I know how Travis coaches,” Ulf says. “He’s a good coach. He’s got a good head for strategy. But he uses the same one everywhere he goes, and we can’t play like the Penguins. We’re not playing like the Penguins.”

“What’s your point?” Rousseau asks, takes a sip of beer like he doesn’t care either way, which doesn’t work when his jaw’s tight and he still won’t meet Ulf’s eye.

“You’re the strategy guy,” Ulf repeats. “So tell me--is what I do bad strategy?”

“It’s poor sportsmanship,” Rousseau says, low. “That’s what it is.”

“Go tell that to the enforcers and the antagonizers and the embellishers while you’re at it,” Ulf says. “Is it bad strategy?”

“No,” Rousseau snaps. “It seems to work just fine.”

“You want me to stop?” Ulf asks. “Because I’ll stop. I’m not interested in getting into it with management with a year left on my contract and more than fifteen years under my belt. You say the word and I’ll stop, but it’s good strategy.”

Rousseau takes another slow sip, finally meets Ulf’s eyes. “Do what you have to do,” he says. “If it wins us games, do it.”

“Okay,” Ulf says.

“Larsson,” Rousseau says, when Ulf’s standing. “Do you even like--” he stops.

“It’s not personal,” Ulf says. “If that’s what you’re asking.”

“That’s not what I’m asking,” Rousseau says. “I’m asking if--” he stops again, like his tongue’s caught on the words.

“Do I fuck men?” Ulf asks. “Is that it?” The league’s moved ahead a hell of a lot since Marc and Dan got outed, but it’s still taboo to ask if you haven’t been told, though Ulf’s been open enough about it he’s surprised Rousseau doesn’t know. Just narrowly skimming away from rookie scandal will do that to you. So will flirting with half the ice, though, like he said, that’s not personal. Hell, he flirts with Marc on the ice on the rare times their shifts overlap, though Marc just laughs at him, so it’s more for fun than strategy.

Rousseau doesn’t say anything.

“Yes,” Ulf says. “But that doesn’t have anything to do with it.”

“It’s strategy,” Rousseau says flatly.

“You got it,” Ulf says, and that should be it, laying it out as a smart maneuver to hopefully force out whatever humiliation remains, but because he’s incorrigible, because he never learns--though at least he knows it--he leans down, enough to speak low and still have Rousseau hear him in the din of the bar. “But I thought it was cute when you blushed,” he says, and spares a look at Rousseau, sitting rigid, perfect posture and his cheeks gone dark like merely acknowledging it could call it forward, before he goes back to the bar to buy himself another drink to hopefully drown the stupid, self-satisfied rush of doing it again.


End file.
